Immortals All
by Saphyr88
Summary: Some one-shots from the Five's Oxford Days, pre-source blood (so pre-1886). All members of the Five will appear eventually. How Nigel met James, that red dress Tesla remembers so fondly, probably a cricket match… and even a bit of John/Helen romance! How about that? On-going.
1. Chapter 1 - The Science of Deduction

**The Science of Deduction**

**Oxford, 1881**

If you had told Nigel Griffin's teachers at Saint Saviour's that the child clowning around in class, mumbling under his breath at their 'over-reaction' to his pranks, would find himself at Oxford, let alone pursuing a Masters in Chemistry, they'd have outright laughed in your face. Such was his reputation… and he'd made a masterful art out of appearing less intelligent than he was. It didn't _do_ to seem intelligent on the rough and ready streets of his youth. His siblings certainly hadn't seen the use of all that learning, and his uniform had made him stand out from the other children on his road like a sore, rather easy-to-tease, thumb. So it was that even though he had taken to Graham's Law as easily as his brother had 'abc', Griffin had never once tooted his own intellectual horn.

In a place such as Oxford, where _genius_ was as common as toffy-nosed gits with nothing but money and breeding to recommend them, it was probably just as well that he continued to keep such things to himself. He had never been top of the class anyway and there was _always_ someone better than you somewhere out there, no matter how highly you thought of yourself.

Perhaps that was why he was having his doubts. The deadline was fast approaching for research applications, and while his was bloody amazing – an endless source of fascination that he wanted to continue with every fibre of his being – he couldn't help but feel as though he were somehow lacking. That with all these geniuses to choose from, spoilt for choice, they would surely only turn him down: and what was the point in building up all of one's hopes, just to have them crushed again?

Then, of course, there was the question of what he would do if he _was_ accepted. How would he fund his post? Could he afford the rent? Was it really worth it, when with his education, he could sweep into a good, solid company and live up to his family's expectations? Oh they never said anything outright, his mother was always proud of him, but it lingered there, unsaid, every time he went home: when was he going to grow up, get a job, settle down and provide for them? When was he going to supersede his brother and take his father's place? Why the bloody hell did he even have to?! All he wanted was to explore the scientific world, make some contribution to humanity's ever-expanding knowledge, to civilisation's progress. So that one day, one day people wouldn't have to live in slums and squalor, wondering where their next meal was coming from.

He sighed irritably at the thoughts spewing round like noxious gasses in his head, and had to put the conical glass down for a moment so he didn't royally screw up the experiment. Immediately his eyes landed on the toff who'd been curiously occupying his laboratory from time to time with the most bizarre array of tests known to man. He'd seen smoke and ash, dirt and semen, what looked to be teeth from skulls and today's bizarre topic of analysis? Blood, it seemed… which was decidedly more commonplace than his earlier subjects.

Griffin might've felt more charitable towards this rather unusual lab partner if it wasn't for the fact that his presence was a constant reminder of his _place_ here at Oxford. He didn't have any fancy connections, he hadn't wowed his lecturers in his first year or wined and dined them in his third; he didn't suck up to them, nor shine with especial brilliance. So, he would forever remain the poor relation, the St Saviour's boy who owed everything to luck and the good will of others, who shouldn't even be cluttering up these hallowed medieval halls with his uncouth, deplorably common blood.

Who else would they foist this lunatic from the medical and biological sciences department onto? Who else would put up with the peculiar stenches of fermenting results, the still-dirty equipment left absent-mindedly here, there, and everywhere – the never-ending silence and disdain with which the interloper clearly held him?

Nigel had been so miffed when he'd been told of this new arrival that he had refused to talk to him at all that first day. A trend that had thenceforth continued, regardless of the fact that Griffin had soon gotten over the fact he'd been thrust upon him and determined not to hold it against the man. So it was literally weeks before he'd asked around about him and discovered the toff had a name: James Watson. The college bar was rife, once he'd started digging, with stories of his… _singularities_.

Stories of how he had gotten kicked out of a medical degree in Scotland – some said Glasgow, others Edinburgh – for his methods of post-mortem analysis, of how he had excelled in toxicology and botany, and a myriad of other topics but not the ones he was here for – namely that same medical degree which had eluded him north of the border. Not to mention his side hobby in the chemistry lab… though his bowling in the Sunday leagues earned him a fair amount of praise despite all that.

The chemist considered him a moment, intent upon the reaction he was creating with a clear solution of blood and water – adding a dash of white powder, then acid. Watson was sporting whiskers, which twitched at the first signs of metamorphosis, his dark eyes zeroing in with delight, and observing intensely for his hoped-for outcome as he stirred four times. Seriously, Griffin understood a passion for what you did, but never before had he witnessed such unadulterated, gluttonous pleasure at being right as he had before James Watson had appropriated half his lab.

Then Nigel realised that the solution had turned a dull chestnut colour throughout, and noticeable clumps of brown dust had settled to the base.

"Huh," he uttered without realising, alerting Watson's absorbed gaze to the fact that, his interest piqued, he had leant over for a closer look. His eyes flicked briefly towards Griffin, before continuing to absorb the effects and extent of the change.

"Do you have something to say Mr…" the voice was everything Nigel had expected it to be – restrained, respectable, arrogant… smug. He didn't even look towards him for as much as a second.

"Griffin," Nigel managed to keep out any hint that might've crept into his voice of his discomfort with being judged and found wanting. Returning to his work, he tried to ignore the fact that the intruder had just pointed out he had absolutely no idea who he was, let alone cared.

"Well Mr Griffin?" he prompted, finishing the notes in his book.

Nigel glanced up, slightly annoyed by the continued interruption. "Well what?"

"You were on the precipice of a revelation I think," he put down his pencil and gave him his full attention, the corners of his eyes clearly crinkling with a paternalistic amusement.

Griffin wasn't sure he appreciated the mockery, and he certainly wasn't too sure that engaging with Watson, finally, after all this time, was a particularly good idea. "Yeah… I _realised_ I should be getting on with my experiment."

The look on the other man's face was presumably one of surprise – his brows knotted slightly as his sharp eyes assessed him, intrigued: "Interesting."

"What?" Nigel stopped everything a little warily, feeling like a butterfly about to be pinned to a specimen board.

Watson dropped the stop watch he'd been fiddling with onto his notebook and braced two hands on the lab-table, with Griffin watching his every move, right down to the tilt of his head. "You've actually been paying attention to my work?"

"Err…" he was flummoxed for a minute, unsure of what he might say, and determined not to come off like a first year – but he couldn't exactly lie. Truth was that, peculiar as Watson's experiments often were, they had, on occasion, completely seized Nigel's interest from his own project until there was some satisfying conclusion drawn. It was Watson's slightly condescending smile that managed to break a coherent answer out of him, "you mean your faffing about with blood and re-agents like a sixth-former with his first _real_ project?"

The jovial bark of laughter was the last thing he'd expected to hear, but Nigel's relief expressed itself in the beginnings of a smile nonetheless.

"Indeed – the methodology is remarkably simple I will give you that, but no less complex. Tell me, Mr Griffin, what do your senses discern from my _faffing about_, as you put it?"

He narrowed eyes at him, wondering what game the man was playing, what form of dominance he hoped to reassert upon him, because the answer was so obvious it hurt. "Well no doubt you were formulating some test for the presence of blood… the white crystals… no doubt a tungstate… probably sodium – and an acetic acid – reacting to the iron in the haemoglobin."

The shock on Watson's face was momentarily evident, though he covered it quickly with a growing smirk, "Well this is a pleasant surprise. _Finally_, someone actually capable of _understanding_ what I am attempting to achieve! You're quite right Griffin, to the letter – I've been researching it for days and this is the first time I've hit on anything quite so perfect." His eyes were alive with the success, his smile suddenly warm and inviting.

"How come?" he dared to ask, and to his great satisfaction Watson never missed a beat in his reply.

"Ah, you see we have had no test that worked on _dried_ blood traces as it did wet. This I tested on fresh blood when I came in today – with the same results as this, here, which was dried before I combined it in the water," he breathed in proudly, "Such a delicate little test – its rather deserving of being so absolutely bloody brilliant."

Griffin's brows were raised, trying to abate the urge to roll the eyes beneath as he nodded in amazement at the man.

"No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?"

He smirked a little, "Well the laundry women will be pleased."

Watson eyed him for a moment, as if figuring out what he meant, and then the pleasure dropped almost as quickly as it had ever appeared, more than just a little put out, "Hang the washerwomen, this is the most practical medico-legal discovery in years. Had this test been invented before today, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes."

Nigel was impressed, and it showed, despite himself, "You mean, prove the stains on the suspect's clothes are traces of blood and not mud?"

"Just so," he sniffed proudly, eying the chemist out of the corner of his eye and surprised at just how appreciative he was of someone to share this with. After all, even Druitt found it a terrible bore and kept asking why it was so necessary to bury his head in a lab than go out for a round of drinks – and John at least appreciated his intelligence, unlike the rest of his college. Sadly Miss Magnus, who would have undoubtedly beamed with congratulations at his success, was on holiday with her illustrious father in the Scottish Highlands. A holiday, he knew, that was little more than a veiled excuse for expeditionary research into her new most favourite topic: comparing human and animal physiology.

Believing this to be the end of the topic, not to mention being slightly put off by the man's apparent hubris, Nigel quietly returned to his work and let him be. Mr Watson apparently thought to do the same. He could hear him tinker and shift some of the equipment about, and then he did something Griffin could hardly have expected, clearing his throat he announced out of the blue: "You should definitely continue."

"What?"

One side of his mouth lifted to a smile at the reaction, and the typically working-class abruptness with which it had been said, "With your studies."

At this Griffin stopped what he was doing – again – rather annoyed, and put his hands on the desk as he straightened himself to his full height, "And what exactly makes you think I was eve-"

"It's written all over you my dear chap," he looked back, all but grinning now as he received permission to exercise the fascinating deductive techniques Dr Bell had taught him, "You've been distracted all day, and keep sighing unconsciously at intervals as though you are thinking on a matter which exasperates you, yet your experiment appears to be going well. You do not direct your frustration onto it at all. You're a bachelor, and I'd wager a rather confirmed one at that from the amount of time you spend at your studies. Your collar and cuffs have been professionally starched, and sometimes you wear crumpled shirts which a female eye would have demanded be seen to… little marks of daily wear and scruffiness about your personal attire which having a significant other might give you reason to remedy. So I would be surprised indeed to find that there was, currently at least, a woman in your life…"

"Hey," Griffin grumbled, slightly taken aback.

Watson of course, continued regardless, "So, if it's not women-troubles, a man of your age and lower-class background," Nigel regarded him warily, very ready to hit him for being so rude, "it must be a matter of money, or your career… and what could be the most frustrating thing to a third year student at this time in the academic calendar, but to decide upon the matter of his future." He paused barely long enough to raise a thick eyebrow at him, catching his breath before continuing, "I might've said you were stuck between the prospects of two employers, but you're clearly onto something quite extraordinary – you'll forgive me, but I snuck a glance at your notes out of curiosity the other day. A man with such dedication to his studies rarely finds satisfaction in the cut and thrust of industry, he thrives in the world of academics and researchers, where his work is given meaning and purpose beyond its financial worth. Therefore, you are at a quandary of whether or not to step into the world, and obtain for yourself a respectable if mundane place in it, or remain here, where your ambitions might yet be realised."

The chemist stood stunned, reeling from the equal turns of insult and compliment that he'd just been paid by a man who did not know him at all, who'd spoken to him for the first time barely ten minutes ago, and had yet, remarkably, hit the nail on the head. Good God, how long had this man been studying him, from across the room, and making such terrifyingly accurate assumptions?

"If you want my advice, Mr Griffin," Watson added with a warm, slightly smug twist of a smile, "I would continue your studies." Picking up his hat from the side, he was clearly taking a break, maybe even finished for the day. Nigel still didn't quite know what to say and so watched him go, pronouncing clearly as he left: "Else I'm afraid you will be doing the world a disservice."

**DISCLAIMERS**:

I have pinched mercilessly from Arthur Conan Doyle's _A Study in Scarlet_, from whence comes the chapter title _The Science of Deduction_, as any Sherlock Holmes fan might have easily picked out. :) But I thought it was appropriate so I'm not going to apologise for a bit of healthy re-appropriation! As usual I do not own anything remotely relating to Sherlock aside from the books on my shelf. Likewise with Sanctuary and its characters, which are owned by the guys who own them… I'm just playing.

**Author's Note:**

Oooh the historical-ness, so my pretties, I was thinking about Griffo and thought – he sounds like a Londoner, and a common one at that, so how does he end up at Oxford? Answer: he's a bright lad and someone realises it, his parents are all about the self-improvement, and manage to get him into a free Grammar school, from whence he manages to get to university.

Saint Saviours was one such free grammar school in Victorian London, located in Southwalk which is south of the river, and not so shiny, and posh, as the west end.

Rather appropriately the word "toff" was slang which originated in Victorian Oxford.

Totally see Watson as a cricket player (I have _no_ idea why)… and John, weirdly enough (those long limbs maybe?)… Griffin I can imagine is more of a Ruggers player. All completely amateur of course!

And Griffin is totally the Watson to Watson's Sherlock… totally, because nice John is just _too_ relaxed and friendly. Well, Griffin and probably Conan Doyle himself, turned into one big fictional malaise. Anyway!

As you can probably tell I do not hold to the maxim that the Five met each other concurrently and the instant they met they formed the Five so… yeah, hopefully you'll find these pre-source-blood forays interesting.

And for anyone following Vienna in Springtime – consider this an apology for the delay in updating! :S


	2. Chapter 2 - A Study in Scarlet

**A Study in Scarlet**

**Oxford, 1879**

It was the perfect autumn day, the sky a bright Cerulean blue with only the ghosts of last night's clouds peppering the cool October air. It smelled of damp soil and moss, of living things glossed over by the now long-gone rain. The weather had not disappointed in that department. Indeed, the storm yesterday evening had been magnificent – streaks of lightening across clustered rooftops and church spires. He'd watched it from his window, mesmerised, calmed by its very presence. Be it Smiljan or Graz, Maribor or England, no matter where you were, or what you did, some things would always turn up eventually.

The same could not be said of people.

Nikola had to admit he was impressed by the display Oxford's trees were making in the avenues and lanes, the labyrinth of gardens and parks through which he passed. The light brought out the hues of the turning leaves with a rare clarity: a brilliant orange, a deep maroon, set against the green of the manicured lawns and the soft yellow sandstone. It was idyllic, civilised, in that typically English fashion – quite unlike the wide-open wildness that formed the country of his childhood. The sequential planting of trees arranged like a painting appealed to his preference for order, except it wasn't the composition, but the colour, which took his breath away when he walked out of his door that morning.

Such a shame that here, just as in the sprawling metropolis of London, so few seemed to pause for as much as a moment to take notice of all they had around them. Certainly the boys in their black gowns and dark suits, walking to class with notebooks under their arms, had never gone without. He thought of them as boys, despite being mostly the very same age – after all, how many of them had fended for themselves in the Croatian mountains, run away from their families, or lost their scholarships for proving their tutors _wrong_? No, he rather suspected that the most trying incidents to befall the cream of England's crop were a broken finger in a cricket match, and perhaps, at most, the heartache of a loved-one's loss. They had already proven themselves ignorant and unimpressively boorish in the few short days since Michaelmas term had begun, and he severely doubted his opinion of them was going to change.

Thank God he wasn't here to make friends.

It had been his old teacher's idea: he'd spent the summer term in Karlovac teaching the little brats at the school where he'd had his intelligence fed and punished in equal measure not six years previously. With his father's death he'd been obliged, for the sake of his mother and sisters, to shove aside his personal problems and help his family make ends meet – but Mr Sekulić had seen the dim apathy in his eyes, the slow wearing away of his crushed soul, and thrown him a life-preserver for which Nikola would remain forever thankful. It was the chance of a life-time: a scholarship to visit the University of Oxford for a semester, to study amongst the best and brightest in Europe.

When his mother had convinced him his uncles would see that they were provided for, he hadn't been able to stay still for so much as a moment, completely unable to contain his excitement. He was going to travel, to get out of that God-forsaken backwater and explore, experience new and better things, in a place where he'd be taken seriously, where his genius would finally be appreciated, and he could learn, understand, all that the latest research could offer!

That initial wave of optimism had dimmed somewhat since: Oxford was very far from the forward-thinking utopia he'd imagined it to be, but at least it was _something_. There were some rather brilliant professors at work here – right alongside the dimwits and preening nobility pretending to know more than they actually did. Not to mention the veritable treasure trove of libraries which he'd wasted no time sinking into... but above all else Nikola just couldn't bear the thought of returning home and his mother sensing his disappointment. Of feeling as though this had been a waste of time, of hard-earned money, that hadn't quite alleviated his black moods as they clearly hoped it might.

Today however, was the sort of day which couldn't fail to restore some sense of rightness with the world. Nature was putting on a beautiful show – and if nature could do it, so could he.

As he cut his usual path through the garden gate of Christ Church, the ever-increasing swathes of black robes couldn't hope to stilt the growing spring in his step. Not even as they gave him those barely-veiled looks: watching the foreigner, the outsider, for anything suspect, or laughable. Nikola had _never_ really cared what they thought, but especially today, those prep-school pricks didn't register as anything except shades – shadows in his peripheral of about as much importance as an ant.

Something caught his eye then, slowing him to a halt as he tried to discern whether it wasn't just a trick of the light on the leaves, but no. Up ahead, by the steps, a vision of pure crimson: the same shade as the deepest red of the most perfect rose. He had never seen a woman in such a colour before, much less wear it with the fastidiousness and manners of a lady… or with such a delicate shade of pink in her cheeks. He tried not to stare, to turn away, but could not. Indeed he had altogether stopped in his tracks so that his blue-grey gaze could take her in: all those blonde ringlets falling to a more than modest neckline… and the books under her arm didn't look like girlish romances either. He noticed, during this rather prolonged assessment that she too was being avoided by his supposed peers.

The whelps he usually leaned towards ignoring were giving her furtive glances, barely hidden sniggers and guffaws as they made it out of her ear-shot, accompanying the occasional sneer of disdain before determinedly blanking out her very presence. There was a good solid yard or two of space around her at all times, and Nikola could only wonder what it was this veritable Helen of Troy had done to merit such ostracism.

"Excuse me?" He overheard her voice – clear as a claret glass, gentle, uncertain and yet firm, as she waylaid one of the shades, "I wonder if you might've seen Professor Odling this morning?"

The lad seemed jolted from his daze by her unexpected interaction with him, regarding her warily at first, before a flirtatious smile started to slip onto his face. "Oh, no, I'm afraid I haven't. If you like, I could help you look for him in the garden?"

She had noticed his sudden, inappropriate, interest in her. There was an instantaneous disapproval in the press of her lips, which she was trying to suppress with a smile so as not to seem rude. "Thank you, that's very kind," she quickly lied. Not particularly well, but with enough charm that it didn't seem to matter to the cad so clearly trying to get her behind the bushes, "but I came here to study, not for romance."

Nikola's eyebrows rose in delight at such a spirited reaction, the corners of his mouth twisting ever upwards in amusement as she unassumingly called the dullard on his intentions, and made the boy's face drop like a stone. Realising his mistake he gave her a perfunctorily polite response and hastily took his leave, to which a dainty tip of her head was her only acknowledgement, as she guardedly watched him depart.

Who was this woman? Tesla found himself walking towards her without even really thinking about it, fascinated, curious. He had heard of the handful of ladies who had been granted permission to audit courses, of course… and here was one of them, in _scarlet_ no less. A colour as bold as her personality, if that brief exchange was anything to go by.

Slowly, but surely, like gravity, her attention turned on him, as though she had started to _sense_ his gaze upon her. The thoughts written on her face told him she was silently wondering whether, or rather _why_, he was staring at her. Indeed, as his drifting path drew more obviously and certainly in her direction she appeared on the precipice of asking, but before her full bottom lip could fully form the words, he spoke.

"Nicely done," he posited warmly, the statement almost as hesitant as it was sure. Nikola stopped himself, uncertain now that he had started, and suddenly extremely conscious of his thick accent. What had he gotten himself into? He could feel his stomach turn to water, fluttering as though it were full of moths, he'd never felt so… _nervous_, and it unhooked him, just a little. "He could do with following your own example, I think."

She frowned at him with interest as though working him out, hugging her book a little tighter to her body, head cocking ever so slightly to one side. It made the brilliant blue of her eyes suddenly pop. Perhaps it was only the light, but they really were the most magnificent colour.

"Remember why he's here," he elaborated, feeling the weighty pause prompting him to explain what he meant, precisely, before she jumped to conclusions, "…to actually learn something other than how to punt."

She smiled then, modestly, but heartfelt nonetheless. Detecting genuine respect in his kind expression, and not a hint of irony in her direction, was unusual to say the least. Most of the men here found her one of three things: a pretty distraction that shouldn't be troubling herself, a shrewish witch, or an insufferable waste of time. Professor Odling was in fact one of the few tutors she'd been introduced to who hadn't treated her as any of those things, most especially the latter. Now here she was, being addressed by a complete and utter stranger with no respect for, or perhaps no understanding of, the usual protocols on how to approach a lady, and yet every respect for her intelligence.

"I'm not sure many of them would share that sentiment," she responded archly, keeping her chin up despite the weary truth of it.

He eyed her, without a hint of condescension, "No, I'm sure they wouldn't… but then, that's their most startlingly _obvious_ flaw."

Her quick eyes fastened onto his, mouth slightly parted as though caught half-way between thinking and speaking – a habit her father had often remonstrated her for, resembling as it did an attempt to catch flies.

Slowly assessing his sincerity, she was surprised to find it completely intact. "I'm sorry…" she smiled, realising something, "I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Magnus." She didn't offer a hand; using her books like a shield, though he had seen her holding them in one arm not a moment before. Not that Nikola much cared for the idea of shaking hands. It was an entirely unnecessary ritual, and one which had never failed to set his teeth on edge, so he was rather glad that she did not extend the courtesy. "Helen Magnus," she added, as if to clarify, her head doing a rather endearing and slightly awkward side-to-side.

The fact that she shared a name with the mythological queen she had brought to mind only made him smile more. _Helen Magnus_. Every inch the prim English rose, he decided, and yet blooming in the wilds of this masculine world of academia; a stereotype and contradiction all in one.

"Nikola Tesla…" he offered his name in return, briefly bowing his head and clasping his hands behind his back, "it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss Magnus."

"Ah, I didn't think you were English," she smiled delightfully, eagerly making her enquiry: "where are you from?"

He wondered whether she was mocking him, perhaps, he couldn't tell… "A small, insignificant village in Croatia," he smiled realising that he actually didn't care, bringing one hand away from his authoritative stance to gesture in explanation, "I am Serbian… by descent."

He followed to where her gaze had been momentarily captivated to his left – a small group of students heading to lectures, clearly aware of who she was and passing comment on them both. His moustache twitched above his lips, a sardonic spark in his eye which Helen seemed to watch with interest. He stepped just a smidgen closer so as not to raise his voice too loud, "Not that the buffoons in black would know the difference," he added confidentially, "my country is not very much a highlight on the Grand Tour."

She chuckled lightly, at the sentiment more than the slightly clumsy use of English so smoothly delivered. She pressed her lips together against that instantaneous smile, wanting to say something equally impolite but holding back, her face beaming whatever unspoken thought had amused her so very much. He found the sudden coyness, a complete contradiction to her earlier display, utterly captivating: her kindness and manners reasserting themselves as she grew more at ease.

"What is it that you study?" he asked.

The corner of her lips tipped upwards in appreciation, "Well, I… want to become doctor – if they ever let me take the exams."

Ambitious, he mused, raising an interested eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Helen started to elaborate, briefly, on the trials and pitfalls facing an aspiring female scholar such as herself but soon moved the topic on. It rather felt like a broken record to her own ears, having railed and ranted to her father for what must have been days on end since she'd started taking her courses, more than three years ago now. The unusual Serbian seemed particularly impressed that she had stuck with this education for so long, with so little acknowledgement, and still no sign of reward, which is when she'd started asking him more about himself.

In the end, Nikola completely missed his lecture. He never regretted it, not for one moment, not even a second, for the rest of his life.

* * *

**Author's Note**:

Every Teslen shipper has to have a pop at this at some time right? I hope I managed to get across Tesla's slightly awkward, younger self, and Helen's younger self for that matter is tricky too. I wanted this to be believable, more than romantic (despite the inherent romance of the situation, I mean awww, two independent peas in a pod of sweeping autumnal Englishness, awww). It's also really tricky to concoct a reason for real life Tesla to be in Oxford, and how that then affects his real timeline. I think I've decided in my head cannon, he meets Helen here, but doesn't stay in England long enough to become part of the 5 – that comes later, after Edison… but before the source blood… hence the early(-ish) date of their meeting. But that's beside the point.

Let me know what you think!

Oh yeah, and we are totally sticking to Sherlock Holms titles for these chapters. :) Got to have a gimmick.

On an aside, not entirely sure I'll ever get around to the others. So let me know – if you'd like to see a John/James aside, or Helen/John, or Helen/James, or Nigel and Nikola – let me know, because I really need some encouragement to be bothered.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Thousand and One Bottles

**The Thousand and One Bottles**

**Oxford, 1881**

There was something about the month of June that leant itself to complete and utter annihilation in some form of public house. The weather grew warmer, days longer, exams were taken, assessments handed in and then finally, it was all over. Every scholar in Oxford felt that same precarious mix of elation and terror as the academic year came to a close: relief, and that spectre known as 'the future' looming on the horizon, demanding to know what was next for them. Had they passed? How well? What would they do now? Another year of study? Maybe that's why so many of them threw themselves into the sporting calendar - first to blot out the approach of examinations and thesis deadlines, then to obliterate that nagging sense that they should be moving on from the best years of their life. Nothing like ramming into a fellow student in pursuit of a ball, or racing as hard and fast as your body could move, to clear the mind.

Match days, of course, were the days when both pursuits combined in the best possible way - victory or defeat they were always followed by an entirely different kind of sport. One in which Nigel, despite his average sportsmanship on the pitch, excelled: drinking. This evening it was the turn of The King's Arms to become Balliol College Rugby Team's pitch - and they were in the mood to celebrate.

"_Gordouli, Face like a ham..._" went the sing-song chant of them all at the bar, by far the loudest drinkers there as they launched into a little taunt penned for the express purpose of testing Trinity's restraint. They were singing so loud that their rivals down the road could probably hear them tucked in their beds. More and more spectators started to join in at the sight of their Balliol colours, even a few of the townsmen. Griffin laughed, finishing off his pint and grinning at George Caird like the devil. Poor kid was tall, but lanky, and his slight frame was really starting to sag under the effects of his consumption. He was starting to hang between the shoulders of his teammates like washing on a line.

"_Father, son and holy ghost_-" Benjamin started chanting, getting a belated copy-cat return from his teammates and half the room, as they drunkenly realised a new jingle was in order and recouped their breath in the thick, sweaty air.

"_Tell you what they want the most, _

_A captain with eyes, _

_Who can score a few tries, _

_And not leave his team out to roast! Oi!"_

Nigel joined the hurrah, tipping his glass to his lips and realising it was empty. "Another round!" He shouted up into his team's circle, extending his glass as a herald.

"To the Queen!" shouted their captain.

"To the Queen!" And all of them downed the rest of whatever was left in their glass. Except George, who was too floppy to lift an arm.

"Cheers Griff!"

"Thanks mate."

This was the part about being a student Nigel Griffin understood most. The formal dinners, the rituals, the college-master etiquette - not even the kindest benefactor in the world could've prepared him for that strange world, bordering on masonic, but after a few pints? When all was said and done, after a drink or three, gentleman, nobleman or thief you were all the same. Here they were, completely intoxicated, and even the most snobby-nosed oik on the team - namely Arthur Lionel - was talking like a foul-mouthed _commoner_.

Drink! _The great leveller,_ Nigel chuffed in amusement, collecting up the few glasses passed his way, and pushing his way back to the bar.

He glanced back, "Oi, lads-"

They turned on him, "God Griffin," Ben laughed, "have I ever told you how much I just love your turns of phrase."

They all jeered. Alright, so maybe they weren't all the same, even pie-eyed, but people's opinion of you tended to rise when you were the last one standing at the end of an all-night drinking session.

"Yeah all right mate," Nigel chuckled, "save it for the ladies." Another friendly jeer rose up from the crowd, "Yer might want to appropriate that nice big table… whilst it's still going – some of us have been running our legs off."

"And not just our mouths!"

"Oi, oi, oi!"

Grinning like idiots some of their team started to stagger towards the table, "Come on men!" Ben carolled a little late, "As your captain, I say - to the table!"

"To the table!"

Nigel waited patiently for the barkeep to finish pulling pints for the men at the other end, drumming fingers absently as he stared at the thousand and one bottles lining the back shelf. That's when a loud blaring chorus of men stumbled through the doors, still in their cricket gear... though thankfully not bearing any bats. The tallest of them was over six foot and Nigel did not even want to think about them getting lary with weapons around. At first he thought it might be a college game, but as they made their way towards the bar they soon put _that_ thought to rest.

".._.put them to bed_," they sang, "_where they belong. Where do they belong? Hey! We all know, the best place for a Cambridge fish… it's. In. A. __**Ditch**__!_"

"Waterson?" One of the other students at the bar called over to the cricketers.

"Lindsay you ol' devil! We only went and _bloody did it_!"

"The whole tournament?"

"_Oh yes_!" Boomed the smooth baritone of the tallest among them, reaching to pull Waterson into a shoulder-to-shoulder embrace with a giant grin.

The news had a riotous effect on the entire bar. An Oxford success after five long years of losing to Cambridge was something to shout about no matter what college you were in, and though the Balliol boys had done a pretty good job of stirring the place up, it was nothing to the sudden explosion of noise as the cricketers announced their success.

"Aw, there you go - stealing our thunder," Griffin chirped with some humour just as the crescendo died away, leaving his comment rather loud in comparison.

The entire place went dead, and despite the irony with which it had been said the cricket team didn't seem particularly impressed. Not least that big tall fellow, whose rather expressive face had become the most neutral thing known to man.

"_Sorry,_ old boy?" he asked, so straight-faced and serious that there wasn't a man in the room who would've been able to predict the cricketer's next move.

You could've heard a pin drop as he started over towards Nigel who, in all honestly, was beginning to wonder whether those big hands were actually going to ring his neck, or just throw him out on his arse. What with the entire cricket team packed in on the other end of the bar it was an intimidating sight. Blimey, the man should've been boxing, or running, or rowing, or something, not playing cricket.

Still, Griffin had been trained from a very young age never to show fear to something or someone bigger or more bullish than you, so he handled it the only way he knew how.

"I said," he straightened himself from his usual hunched posture, looking the man in the eyes and grinning a little, as though it might hide the grimace at how this was most likely to go, "you've gone and stolen our thunder mate…" He explained on a plucky outward breath, "win like that beats ours any day."

The towering man didn't seem too interested in this explanation - for a second. Then he cracked the biggest, warmest grin imaginable, and took Nigel's hand in a firm but cordial shake.

"I think our sportsman here thought he'd be landing face-down in a gutter," he drawled with a sardonic cheer, just as Nigel veritably sank in relief. The cricketer chuckled, a warm sound against the raucous laughter which matched the crinkle of his eyes, "Sorry old boy," he hummed drolly, clapping the much, much shorter man on the shoulder. "Forgive me… Here, here… drinks on me!"

As the big man hailed down the barkeep, Nigel was a little too pleased to not have ears - or anything else - boxed in, to really register his offer or even the return of ordinary chatter as all fear of a brawl simply evaporated.

"Bloody hell, you had me going there," Griffin soon cheered over the lip of a fresh glass, sipping off the head of the drink.

The cricketer laughed with an easy smile, "Where _are_ my manners?" he offered his hand as if forgetting that he'd already done so, which made Nigel smirk as accepted the same firm but friendly grip, "John Montague Druitt."

"Nigel Griffin."

"Well Nigel Griffin," Druitt started, sipping on his own pint and clearly unaware of his repetitive action, "what _victory celebrations_ have we so unceremoniously interrupted with our own, hmm?"

"Only went and slammed the Trinity Ruggers team," he beamed broadly, remembering to order the rest of the round for his team before the bartender left the cricketers alone to refill for a few of the regulars.

"Oooooh," John hissed with a flinch, as though this was going to be severely awkward, just as the friend behind him piped up with a rather disgruntled "**What**?!"

It took a second for Nigel to work out what the matter was, but when he did, his face nearly split. This was just _too _perfect: Trinity boys who had yet to feel the shame. "Tupped your boys up good and proper mate," he laughed. "That last try, whoa… piece of art if I do say so myself."

The curly-haired fop was red, literally fuming, "Bloody hell! This is why Darnly should've been captain! I said didn't I? I said!"

John started to chuckle again, "You've got nerve Mr Griffin… or is it only _Dutch courage_?"

Nigel only laughed.

"Complimenting a Balliol boy?" his friend started with an uppity tone, "Really John, sometimes I wonder who's side you're on," he turned to Griff, "Drinking competition," he demanded with jaggedly pointed finger, "To reclaim Trinity's honour from you Balliol scum."

If Nigel _shared_ the maniacal grin of John's friend, it was that same brand of insanity all hard-drinking students shared - the belief that no one, _no one_ could possibly drink _them _under the table.

"Oh you're _set_ mate," he said, clapping his hands together with glee, "you're set. Lads?!" he shouted across the room, bearing as many of his team's pints as he could, "Think we've got us another chance to show Trinity who's boss!"

Sparing Druitt a cheeky smirk, Griffin threw his head towards their table as if to show them to the field of combat and meandered over to his team.

"I hope you know what you're doing Havers," John murmured to his friend over the ambient noise, "you're not going to be James' favourite person if he's playing nurse maid tomorrow."

Havers could tell from John's laconic tone and teasing smile that he didn't _really_ care, "Serves him right for going home early. Besides it'll give him chance to practice that medical degree he's supposed to be studying for."

John smirked as Havers started calling round the bar for enough Trinity men to form a rugby team, and headed towards their table of opponents just as Griffin got to the introductions.

"Gentlemen of Balliol Rugby Team, Captain Lyndsford, I present to you Trinity supporters Mr Druitt and Mr…"

"Havers, "

"Havers! And… guests," Griffin waved in their general direction, "Now. We all want to beat you good sirs _fair and square_-" he grinned like a carnival ring-master and watching Druitt conspiratorially.

"So we can rub it in more later!"

John's eyebrow rose at the team's jeer, noticing the table next to them getting cold feet about being so close to a drinking competition and leaving it free for them to slide into their seats.

"So we are in need of some ground rules," Ben overspoke his team.

"Agreed," Havers jumped in, "And a _completely neutral _referee."

The Rugby Captain nodded and one of the Balliol boys went and tapped someone they'd never met on the shoulder to politely slur a request for their assistance.

"How do you want to play it Havers?"

Havers' smile promised nothing good, "Let's keep it simple chaps," he slapped John on the shoulder, a move which always made the bigger man roll his eyes in good humour, "A race?"

"Drinking race it is Havers, good choice."

Ten minutes later the two teams were lined up in two parallel lines, team mates behind each other. A Jesus College Professor, who both sides had made pains to ensure wasn't tutoring any team member, or a past student of either college, was found to officiate and ensure fair play. Druitt and Griffin both ended up at the back of their respective teams – the last to go. The two men spared each other a glance, and Griffin smiled at the unimpressed look on Druitt's face - clearly he didn't think this was going to solve anything. Still, at the sight of Nigel's unabashed enthusiasm for what was about to happen, John couldn't help but smirk.

The Professor set the race in motion; Havers and Lyndsford at the top downing their pints as quick as they could. Trinity came out a little ahead, the next team member taking up the gauntlet. The entire pub was getting in on the roar, the cricket team completely split down the middle for the purposes of good old-fashioned college rivalry, cheering their favourites on as pint after pint was consumed in succession. Balliol had put George right down before Griffin for a reason - even though Lionel had gotten them a whole pint ahead, George went and lost all that in an instant. Thankfully, as he placed his empty glass on his head he managed to hold the liquid in and Griffin launched into his pint like a fish. The noise around them crescendoed to new heights, hands beating against tables to the chant of 'drink, drink, drink, drink', until Nigel lifted his slightly damp glass onto his head with a certain amount of pomp and circumstance, and the whole place went up in a cheer.

The room may have been swaying, but he didn't care - Mr Druitt had the barest scrap of liquid still in his glass and Balliol had won! With a contented smile at the referee's decision, Nigel grinned towards Druitt in triumph, spinning round to revel in the glory before promptly collapsing on the floor.

**Author's Note**: How Griffin met Druitt. They're _students_: alcohol had to be involved somewhere! :D This actually came flying off the page once I had the concept, though I have no idea why. I was going to write about James and John but then **carmesdi** suggested it might be more interesting to read about the more obscure pairings within the Five (no, not those kinds of pairings!) So I thought, alright, who spent virtually no screen time interacting, ever – and these two were pretty much it.

Next time I'll either have a crack at James & Helen (working title: _The Woman_), or Nikola's first encounters with James & Griffin (working title: _The Three Students_). As you can probably tell I do find myself easily suggestible - so suggest away!

Those of you hoping for a **Vienna** update my apologies, I thought life was throwing a little extra time my way, and then holiday, and then money! Arghle. So it may be slightly later than expected. :( Hope this will keep you entertained in the meantime, even though it is short and sweet.


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